Click, Click, Slide

This is based off of a ghost story I heard as a kid. Freaked the hell 'outta me. This is my own spin on it.

Hope you enjoy!

Click, Click, Slide

By: Jody R Liske

Clyde was losing daylight. The sun was barely visible through the thick trees in the west, shining through them like a reflection off silver. He strolled down the empty streets, counting his steps. The store closed at sundown and he was half a mile away. He picked up his pace.

Mom needed two bottles of milk for tomorrow. One bottle for making her special buttermilk biscuits, and the second for his own cereal. If Clyde didn’t get the bottles, his mother would deal with him. She usually used a rolled up newspaper or magazine and gave him a good one across the head. She seemed to go for the thicker ones more often. Some of the magazines she got looked like goddam Sears Christmas catalogues. He hurried his feet.

He turned off Lincoln Ave onto Winston Street, gazing at the retreating sun. He turned his gaze to the gated lot across the street. It was the local cemetery. An idea flashed into his head. Instead of going the long way, which involved three streets; he would cut through the cemetery. Clyde was twelve years old, he could handle a cemetery at dusk.

He jumped the pointed fence, making sure his shirt didn’t catch. Mom wouldn’t like that. He walked across the eerie field, passing graves and headstones. No crickets screeched, no wolves howled. It was just him and the dead, sharing an echoing silence. The sun barely lit the sky above, leaving it a darkening blue. Shadows began to lurk, and Clyde could feel the chill of the coming night.

Gee, I don’t remember it being this quiet. Could drive a man insane.

He let out a nervous laugh. He sped up. A small breeze blew around him, carrying with it a frightening chill. Clyde could have sworn he had heard a hoarse voice call his name. He thought of a man hiding behind one of the tall oaks, wielding a knife. A ‘pervert’ is what his Mom called them. She said they like to touch your privates and lure you in with candy and toys.

‘Hey kid! Wanna basketball? I’ll give it to you if you let me touch your privates!’

His skin tingled and began to crawl. The silence made it clear that if he could only hear himself, someone (or something) else could hear him too. The bush-line was within throwing distance. He was looking at the darkening sky when he stumbled. He fell, landing in front of a tombstone. The depleting sun made out the name. Clyde drew in a sharp breath. “Meredith Sholltz, Born: December. 14th 1864, Died: October. 26th 1923.” A deep cutting fear stabbed at his insides. He could see her six feet beneath him, scratching at the lid of the coffin, trying to get to him. He scrambled to his feet, and ran for the bush-line. She was coming.

Clyde let up once he thrashed through the forest. His heart thudded in his chest, making him draw deep breaths. His mind raced with thoughts of horror and hellish nightmares. He thought of the stories.

Meredith Sholltz was a child murderer. “Killed them for sacrifice.” his friend Mark had told him. “She would lure you in with promises of candy and toys, much like those perverts. Then she would get ‘ya,” Clyde remembered how Mark made a hook shape with his hand. “She’d gut ‘ya Clyde. Split ‘ya wide open.” He shuddered. Black silhouettes weaved on the darkening ground in front of him.

The worst thing about Sholltz, were her outrageously long fingernails. Three or four inches long at least. Mark said she would pluck out your eyes with those nails and watch you squirm around. This woman wasn’t just sick. She was fucking sadistic. Police couldn’t find anything that would find her guilty of the murders. She buried the bodies deep in the woods, miles away from her shack. The parents of the murdered children knew better than those dick-brained cops. They wouldn’t let her get away with what she had done.

They stormed her house, which was deep in the town woods. They beat her, breaking bones in her face and torso. One of the parents even took the time to rip out one of her eyes. He remembered the sound Mark made—pluck!—. They carried her out to the old railroad tracks, north of the cemetery. She was tied to the tracks, and the parents watched while the train tore off her legs. She screamed into the sky. A piercing sound it was. They watched as she bled to death. Clyde scanned the thick brush around him. It had darkened remarkably, making it hard to see. Mark said she still roamed the town. Using her fingernails to pull her along. They would make a harrowing sound when they clacked on the ground.

Click.

Click.

Slide. As she pulled her stumped body along.

He could see the street lights through the thinning trees. Relief overwhelmed him. He jogged to the street. Whatever fear he felt melted away. He started for the store.

A branch snapped somewhere in the woods.

He walked out of the store with two bottles of milk. A grin plastered his face as he began to stroll down McLeod, listening to the change jingle in his pocket. Clyde had made it just in time.

“Lucky boy ‘ya are! Was just closing up.” Mr. Weaver said, cracking a smile. “G’on and get what ‘ya need, your Momma’s probably having a crow!”

He didn’t care. He was happy to be out of that lot. He would take the long way home. No date with Sholltz tonight.

Walking down Lincoln was a breath of fresh air. Passing the cemetery brought back that terribly familiar feeling. Something watched him as he walked past the graveyard. Something in the woods. He felt it. Its eyes bloodshot, and clouded with death.

Shut up! Jesus Christ, you’re gonna drive yourself crazy!

The last thing Clyde wanted at the moment was to be thinking of a dead person stalking him. That wasn’t even possible. The dead belonged in the ground. Meredith Sholltz did not haunt the streets of Huntington. She stayed in the ground, where she was nothing but dust. She haunted his dreams, but he was okay with that. He knew that he would wake up. No matter how terrifying the dream, he would always wake. She was nothing but an old dead hag who had nothing better to do than to—

Click.

Click.

Clyde stopped. His heart rose in his chest, clogging his throat. Terror swept over him. His ears rang with every sound that cut the silence. All the spit in his mouth seemed to dry up. His eyes scanned everywhere. Looking for a rotting corpse.

Stop it!

Clyde turned around and watched the street behind him.

Nothing.

He had imagined it. It was dark and the streets were empty. Of course his mind would be racing with thoughts of monsters and ghosts. He needed some sleep, that was all. A good night’s sleep. He continued on down Lincoln, turning his mind to something else.

He turned off Lincoln onto a dirt road that lead to his house. It wasn’t far. He could take it easy from here. He was well past the cemetery and it wouldn’t be long until he was in his bed. Clyde slowed down, and started thinking of an excuse he could give his Mom explaining why he was late. He whistled into the night as he walked down the road. The sky was full of twinkling stars. The moon was waxing, a sliver in the sky. Clyde crossed over the railroad tracks and felt a chill run up his spine. He imagined Sholltz squirming around, leg-less and screaming. The train roaring by but her screams being heard for miles.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

He didn’t imagine that. That was real. The sound crept up behind him. Clyde turned and looked back. Darkness filled the road. If there was something crawling after him, he couldn’t see it. He could hear it though. His palms became sweaty and trembled. The milk sloshed around in the bottles. It felt as if he had swallowed a soft ball. Sweat beaded on his forehead, each bead becoming pregnant, and would eventually drip down his face. His stomach tossed and turned, making him uneasy. He knew he had to run. Run, or be killed (“She’d gut ‘ya Clyde. Split ‘ya wide open.”).

Click.

Click.

Behind him.

Slide.

He ran.

Glenda Richards was reading a paperback in the living room when Clyde came -burst- in. He panted, his back against the door. His eyes were squeezed shut. Sweat drenched his face. Glenda showed no concern.

“You’re home late.” She said. “Where’s the milk, Clyde?”

“Sorry Mom. I dropped it on my way back here,” He was fighting the urge to stutter. “I’m really sorry Momma.” His eyes did not meet hers. Her face was calm, as was her voice.

“You know what that means.” She stood, and reached for the newspaper on the table beside her.

“Come get your ‘whuppin.”

Clyde lay awake. The wind sang its beautiful song outside his bedroom window. Wolves howled in the distance. His face was bruised from the ‘whuppin his Mom had given him. He had a hell of a bump on the back of his head. Glenda was a big woman, and she packed quite a blow. Clyde cried when she beat him. Not because it hurt, but because he felt like a coward. He wasn’t the brave boy he thought he was. Not that night. He was a scared little sissy. What he heard that night was probably his imagination. He wanted to believe that, but he couldn’t.

Sleep failed to come. He tossed and turned in his bed, but his efforts were useless. He couldn’t stop thinking of what he had heard. The digging of nails in the gravel road, and the sliding reminded him of nails dragging on a chalk board, shrill and ghastly. He shivered. Just the thought of what he—

Click.

Click.

Slide.

Downstairs. In the kitchen.

Clyde groaned, his breathing quickened. His eyes stared widely at his bedroom door. The shadows in his room seemed to be getting closer to him. The wind and the wolves were distant now. A mere echo falling deeper into silence. His heart thundered in his chest.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

It was getting closer.

His muscles seized, freezing him. His mouth turned dry, and the air felt harsh on his throat. He could have stopped breathing, and he wouldn’t have known. His clammy hands clenched the sheet that covered his mouth. He trembled madly.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

Down the hall.

He believed it all. He believed she killed children, even after she was dead. He believed that monsters existed. Not monsters as in rapists, murderers, and perverts, but monsters like Dracula and Frankenstein. He believed in Mummies and zombies. He believed that the dead walked the earth at night. He believed in Meredith Sholltz, and he believed that she was going to kill him.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

At his door.

The doorknob twisted, squeaking in the dark. The door creaked open. Clyde’s caught breath clogged his scream. Tears welled in his eyes, and he felt his bladder go. His room filled with the smell of piss, and the sick and sweet smell of a rotting corpse.

Silence.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

He believed now.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

Stuttered breaths lingered from the floor.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

She gripped the covers and pulled herself on the bed. Clyde could smell her breath through the sheet. A foul smell of rot and dirt. She lied on top of him, her stuttered breaths breaking the silence. Clyde could feel the stubs where her legs should have been. Her nails pressed against the sheet and tore it, presenting herself to him. Fear stopped his scream. Clyde had never seen anything so terrifying. Not even the tenth layer of hell would have something as ghastly. Two deep holes sat where her nose should have been. Her lips were gone, chewed away by maggots. Her left eye was white with death, and darkness seeped out of the right eye socket. If she had lips, they would have stretched into a horrifying grin.

Yeah, I second what Nadja said. It's okay but could do with being shorter, snappier.

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A couple of minor problems. You drop out of past tense a couple of times and slip into present. It's not lied; it's lay.

The writing is good, but there's no plot, no tension, no resolution. If you're just telling an old campfire tale, that's okay. A true story, however, needs a base-line, not just boy meets ghoul, ghoul gets boy. The ending was inevitable once you told the woman's story. So, although you obviously tried to create tension as the ghoul came closer, it fell flat.

I hope that helped,

JohnB

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Basically shorter, get to the good bits quicker. Short concise sentences.
He was afraid. The eerie sound continued. Click, click, slide. He wept. She was coming for him.
Something like that perhaps.

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Still needs to be snappier. I can't even tell what you've taken out. There's a sentence that starts with two 'the's, which is still there and the beginning is a little bland. If you want I will edit the whole piece for you, but beware, you may not like the changes I make. They'll only be suggestions really, but I think this story is good, it just needs a bit of help with execution.

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Kas, I don't know how to make it snappier without taking out some vital parts of the story. Can you tell me specifically what you think is making it bland and unnatural? I would appreciate all the help I can get.

I'm going to try to be brutal, and pray my computer doesn't play up!!!

Originally Posted by LurkingDarkness

Click, Click, Slide

By: Jody R Liske

Clyde was losing daylight. The sun was barely visible through the thick trees in the west, shining through them like a reflection off silver.The sun was setting and Clyde knew his mother would tan his ass half-way to Monday if he didn’t put it in gear. He strolled down the empty streets, counting his steps. Mom needed two bottles of milk for tomorrow. One bottle for making her special buttermilk biscuits, and the second for his own cereal. He gazed to the west, watching the golden light begin to slide below the horizon. The milk store closed at sundown and he was half a mile away. He pickedhad to pick upthehis pace.

He did.

If Clyde didn’t get the bottles, his mother would deal with him. She usually used a rolled up newspaper or magazine and gave him a good one across the head. She seemed to go for the thicker ones more often. Some of the magazines she got looked like goddam Sears Christmas catalogues. He hurried his feet.

Clyde was losing daylight. The sun was barely visible through the thick trees in the west, shining through them like a reflection off silver. He turned off Lincoln Ave onto Winston Street, gazing at the retreating sun. He turned his gaze to the gated lot across the street. It was the local cemetery. An idea flashed into his head. Instead of going the long way, which involved three streets down Winston, turning right and going down Gates, and turning right again and go down McLeod; he would cut through the cemetery. Clyde was twelve years old, andhe could handle a cemetery at dusk.

He jumped the pointed fence, making sure his shirt didn’t catch. Mom wouldn't like that. He walked across the eerie field, passing graves and headstones. No crickets screeched, no wolves howled. It was just him and the dead, sharing an echoing silence. The sun barely lit the sky above, leaving it a darkening blue. Shadows began to lurk, and Clyde could feel the chill of the coming night.

Gee, I don’t remember it being this quiet. Could drive a man insane.

He let out a nervous laugh which lacked of humour. He sped up. A small breeze blew around him, carrying with it a frightening chill. Clyde could have sworn he had heard a hoarse voice call his name. He thought of a man hiding behind one of the tall oaks, wielding a knife. A ‘pervert’ is what his Mom called them. She said they like to touch your privates and lure you in with candy and toys.

‘Hey kid! Wanna basketball? I’ll give it to you if you let me touch your privates!’

His skin tingled and began to crawl. The hair on his arms stood as gooseflesh broke the surface. The silence made it clear that if he could only hear himself, someone (or something) else who stalked the graveyard, could hear him too. The sun was still visible, but the sky was darkening quickly. Sun still visible he could see the bush-line was within throwing distance. He was looking at the darkening sky when he stumbled. He fell, Falling forwards and landing in front of a tombstone. The depleting sun made out the name on the stone. Clyde drew in a sharp breath. The stone read: “Meredith Sholltz, Born: December. 14th 1864, Died: October. 26th 1923.” A deep cutting fear stabbed at his insides. His arms felt like they turned to rubber. He could see her six feet beneath him, scratching at the lid of the coffin, trying to get to him. He scrambled to his feet, and ran for the bush-line. She was coming. She was coming to drag him down there, into her grave.

Clyde let up once he thrashed through the forest. His heart thudded in his chest, making him draw deep breaths. His mind raced with thoughts of horror and hellish nightmares. He thought of the stories.

The stories were about that woman, Meredith Sholltz. She was a child murderer. “Killed them for sacrifice.” his friend Mark had told him. “She would lure you in with promises of candy and toys, much like those perverts. Then she would get ‘ya,” Clyde remembered how Mark made a hook shape with his hand. “She’d gut ‘ya Clyde. Split ‘ya wide open.” He shuddered. Black silhouettes weaved on the darkening ground in front of him.

The worst thing about Sholltz, were her outrageously long fingernails. Three or four inches long at the least. Mark said she would pluck out your eyes with those nails and watch you squirm around. This woman wasn’t just sick. She was fucking sadistic. Police couldn’t find anything that would find her guilty of the murders. She buried the bodies deep in the woods, miles away from her shack. The the parents of the murdered children knew better than those dick-brained cops. They wouldn’t let her get away with what she had done.

They stormed her house, which was deep in the town woods. They beat her, breaking bones in her face and torso. One of the parents even took the time to rip out one of her eyes. He remembered the sound Mark made—pluck!—. They carried her out to the old railroad tracks, north of the cemetery. She was tied to the tracks, and the parents watched while the train tore off her legs. She screamed into the sky. A piercing sound it was. They watched as she bled to death. Clyde’s eyes scanned the thick brush around him. It had darkened remarkably, making it hard to see. Mark said she still roamed the town. Using her fingernails to pull her along. They would make a harrowing sound when they clacked on the ground.

Click.

Click.

And then she would pull.

Slide. As she pulled her stumped body along.

He could see the street lights through the thinning trees. Relief overwhelmed him. He jogged to the street. Whatever fear he felt before melted away. He started for the store.

A branch snapped somewhere in the woods.

He walked out of the store with two bottles of milk. A grin plastered his face as he began to stroll down McLeod, listening to the change jingle in his pocket. Clyde had made it just in time.

“Lucky boy ‘ya are! Was just closing up.” Mr. Weaver said, cracking a smile. “G’on and get what ‘ya need, your Momma’s probably having a crow!”

He didn’t care. He was happy to be out of that lot. He would take the long way home. No date with Sholltz tonight.

No sir!

Walking down Lincoln was a breath of fresh air. Passing the cemetery brought back that terribly familiar feeling. Something watched him as he walked past the graveyard. Something in the woods. He felt it. Its eyes bloodshot, and clouded with death.

Shut up! Jesus Christ, you’re gonna drive yourself crazy!

He was right. The last thing Clyde wanted at the moment was to be thinking of a dead person stalking him. That wasn’t even possible. The dead belonged in the ground. Meredith Sholltz did not haunt the streets of Huntington. She stayed in the ground, where she was nothing but dust. She haunted his dreams, but he was okay with that. He knew that he would wake up. No matter how terrifying the dream, he would always wake. She was nothing but an old dead hag who had nothing better to do than to—

Click.

Click.

Clyde stopped. His heart rose in his chest, clogging his throat. Terror swept over him. His ears rang with every sound that cut the silence. All the spit in his mouth seemed to dry up on his tongue. His eyes scanned everywhere around him. Looking for a rotting corpse, dragging itself through the streets behind him.

Stop it!

Clyde turned around and watched the street behind him.

Nothing.

He had imagined it. It was dark and the streets were empty. Of course his mind would be racing with thoughts of monsters and ghosts. He needed some sleep, that was all. A good night’s sleep. He continued on down Lincoln, turning his mind to something else.

He turned off Lincoln onto a dirt road that lead to his house. It wasn’t far. Half a kilometer at the most. He could take it easy from here. He was well past the cemetery and it wouldn’t be long until he was in his bed. Clyde slowed down, and started thinking of an excuse he could give his Mom explaining why he was late. He whistled into the night as he walked down the road. The sky was full of twinkling stars. The moon was waxing, a sliver in the sky. Clyde crossed over the railroad tracks and felt a chill run up his spine. He imagined Sholltz squirming around, leg-less and screaming. The train roaring by but her screams being heard for miles.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

He didn’t imagine that. That was real. The sound crept up behind him. Clyde turned and looked back. Darkness filled the road. If there was something crawling after him, he couldn’t see it. ButHe could hear it though. His palms became sweaty and trembled. The milk sloshed around in the bottles. It felt as if he had swallowed a soft ball. Sweat beaded on his forehead, each bead becoming pregnant, and would eventually drip down his face. His stomach tossed and turned, making him uneasy. He knew he had to run. Run, or be killed. “She’d gut ‘ya Clyde. Split ‘ya wide open" Mark had warned.

Click.

Click.

Behind him.

Slide.

He ran.

Glenda Richards was reading a paperback in the living room when Clyde came - burst - in. (Came in is wrong. More like burst in.) He panted, his back against the door. His eyes were squeezed shut. Sweat drenched his face. Glenda showed no concern.

“You’re home late.” Clyde nearly screamed. His eyes were wide and rimmed with fear. His hands were clenched into fists. She asked: “Where’s the milk, Clyde?”

“Sorry Mom. I dropped it on my way back here,” He was fighting the urge to stutter. “I’m really sorry Momma.” His eyes did not meet hers. Her face was calm, as was her voice.

“You know what that means.” She stood, and reached for the newspaper on the table beside her. “Come get your ‘whuppin.”

Clyde lay awake. The wind sang its beautiful song outside his bedroom window. Wolves howled in the distance. His face was bruised from the ‘whuppin his Mom had given him. He had a hell of a bump on the back of his head. His Mom spudded him good that time. Glenda was a big woman, and she packed quite a blow. Clyde cried when she beat him. Not because it hurt (which it did), but because he felt like a coward. He wasn’t the brave boy he thought he was. Not that night. He was a scared little sissy. What he heard that night was probably his imagination. He wanted to believe that, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Those sounds were real. As real as those perverts his Mom warned him about. He didn’t know what it was, but something was there.

Something was following him.

Sleep failed to come. He tossed and turned in his bed, but his efforts were useless. He couldn’t stop thinking of what he had heard. The digging of nails in the gravel road, and the sliding reminded him of nails dragging on a chalk board, shrill and ghastly. He shivered. Just the thought of what he—

Click.

Click.

Slide.

From Downstairs. In the kitchen.
Clyde groaned,and his breathing grew quickened. His eyes stared widely at his bedroom door. The shadows in his room seemed to be getting closer to him. The wind and the wolves were distant now. A mere echo falling deeper into silence. His heart thundered in his chest.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

Up the stairs.

It was getting closer.

His muscles seized, freezing him in his spot. His mouth turned dry, and the air felt harsh on his throat. He could have stopped breathing, and he wouldn’t have known. His clammy hands clenched the sheet that covered his mouth. He trembled madly.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

Down the hall.Almost here.

He believed it all. He believed she killed children, even after she was dead. He believed that monsters existed. Not monsters as in rapists, murderers, and perverts, but monsters from stories and movies. He believed inlike Dracula and Frankenstein. He believed in Mummies and zombies. He believed that the dead walked the earth at night. He believed in Meredith Sholltz, and he believed that she was going to kill him.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

OutsideAt his door.

His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to believe that these monsters weren’t real, but the proof was right in front of him.

It was outside his door.

The doorknob twisted, squeaking in the dark. The door creaked open. Clyde’s breath clogged his scream. Tears welled in his eyes, and he felt his bladder go. His room filled with the smell of piss, and the sick and sweet smell of a rotting corpse.

Silence.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

He believed now.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

Stuttered breaths lingered from the floor.

Click.

Click.

Slide.

She gripped the covers and pulled herself on the bed. Clyde could smell her breath through the sheet. A foul smell orof rot and dirt. She lied on top of him, her stuttered breaths breaking the silence. Clyde could fell the stubs where her legs should have been. Her nails pressed against the sheet and tore it, presenting herself to him.Clyde couldn’tFear stopped his scream. She ripped the sheet and presented herself to him. Clyde had never seen anything so terrifying. Not even if he searched the tenth layer of hell would he findhave something as ghastly. Two deep holes sat where her nose should have been. Her lips were gone, most likely chewed away by maggots. Her left eye was white with death, and darkness seeped out of the right eye socket. If she had her lips, they would have stretched across her face into a horrifying grin.

He believed, and he screamed.

—Pluck!—

What do you think?

LurkingDarkness

Okay I'd love to explain all my alterations, but time constraints. Basically red means remove, blue is what I've added. I noticed that a few times you would have two following statements that basically told the reader the same information. In those cases I've chosen one and coloured the other red. I've combined a few sentences together, and changed the opening sentence. Sometimes less is more, you don't have to explain every emotion he's feeling or how it shows on his physical being. If the reader is engrossed in the story, they will 'see' these things without being told them.
Hope you find at least some of my changes beneficial.

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The worst thing about Sholltz, were her outrageously long fingernails. Three or four inches long at least.

Omitted long as you already specified they were long in sentence before.

Passing the cemetery brought back that terribly familiar feeling. Something watched him as he walked past the graveyard. Something in the woods. He felt it. Its eyes bloodshot, and clouded with death.

Omitted him, goes without saying that they were watching him.

Clyde slowed down, and started thinking of an excuse he could give his Mom explaining why he was late. He whistled into the night as he walked down the road. The sky was full of twinkling stars. The moon was waxing, a sliver in the sky.

You already said he was on the dirt road near home.

He ran, dropping the milk in his haste.

You never say he dropped the milk until he tells his mom. It's up to you if you put it in here, but it always stuck in my mind that you never said he dropped the milk.

That's it!

I hope from the changes I've suggested you have learnt something, or feel you have. Your writing is generally very good but you do tend to repeat things and use unnecessary words. I suggest you do a brutal edit on your work, save as different file and then read the two seperate versions and find the middle ground. Everything in moderation remember.

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To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts. Life is a journey, you hold the map To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.

To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts. Hope for the best, expect the worst, accept whatever happens To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.

To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts. A person's true strength is shown in how they handle failure, not success To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.

To view links or images in signatures your post count must be 10 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.